METAL GEAR RISING: WAR MAKER
by Ridley the Violator
Summary: Just when you thought it was over...AGAIN. One man. One dog. One woman. One other man. One more man. And another man, but he has no legs. Together they are Desperado: a top war-making agency operating all over the third world. But a rival agency intending on spreading peace is trying to undo all their work. Can SAMHWELL RODREGEZ put a stop to these peace loving mad men?
1. Prologue

Prologue

It was high noon in New Jersey, Africa, the city where everything was yellow including the asphalt. Sam and Bladewolf were sitting next to each other across from Senator Armstrong in the limo chatting about things they had just done. Sam was wearing a tuxedo and Bladewolf was wearing a stylish black vest around his midsection with the top button roguishly undone.

Armstrong spoke. "Damn fuck, son. If it hadn't been for the help of Desperado I wouldn't have been able to restore war to this monkey shit disaster of a country." He winked at the bald cyborg sharing the seat next to him, the fourth passenger in the car. "No offense, bud, but sometimes what you need is a beautiful bastard with beautiful hair." He lit his cigarette and winked at Sam. "Like you, mister 'Jetstream.'"

Sam grinned his trademark shit eating grin. "No problem, Senator. That's Desperado's job—ravaging the world, wronging rights, putting good people to the sword. Now that the region is in absolute chaos, it should be easy to make billions of dollars off of the military industrial complex." He turned to Bladewolf. "Think how many milk bones you could buy with that, eh, poop?"

Bladewolf's tail lashed back and forth. "You must cease calling me poop, Sam. It is highly disturbing."

Senator Armstrong chuckled. "Some bastards might not be happy with what we've done here. A lot of people want peace. A good man is hard to find."

Suddenly, the car stopped. Armstrong growled in irritation and slapped the back window. "What the hell's the matter with you? I don't have all day, driver!"

The window scrolled down. "Sir!" said the cyborg who was driving the car, also bald. "There's someone in the road!"

"Well run him over!" Armstrong threw up his large meaty hands in exasperation. "Who do you think we are, anyways? Drivers?"

Outside of the car a strange scene was transpiring: a muscular black man in a blue shirt and cargo pants was standing spread legged in the middle of the road, a disturbing smile on his face. His dreadlocks shone with expensive and lustrous hair gel and his glam muscles flexed menacingly, and he was wearing yellow goggles. Across his chest was strung a bandolier of coffee mugs.

The bald cyborg in the tank that had accompanied the limousine aimed an armor piercing turret at the interloper. "Sir! Sir, you are standing in the middle of the road in order to stop us from moving our convoy to a safe destination. Move now, or I will be forced to assume that this is part of an elaborate and dramatic attack!"

The man's strange smile only widened. With deliberate care he removed a single coffee cup from his bandolier and began to spin it in his fingers. The ceramic became a blur.

The cyborg on the turret gasped, but it was too late. He barely had time to give the order to open fire before the cup smashed into the side of his face. Blisteringly hot coffee sprayed across his skin and melted it instantly. This produced much flailing and screaming as the guard toppled out of the tank and fell to the road to die. The man in the middle of the road only laughed. His next move was to flick another coffee mug, this time high into the air.

Through the limo's window, Sam peered over Armstrong's enormous shoulder. "What the hell?"

The crazed coffee crusader delivered a spinning axe kick to the mug that sent it flying in an arc into the air. Before anyone could realize what was about to happen, sharp broken mug shards and boiling hot fair trade coffee rained through the open hatch of the tank. Everyone inside died, their bodies scratched and poked by the cup fragments, their tongues badly singed by the coffee droplets.

"Hesus Christe!" exclaimed Sam as he stared at the tank, but it was too late again: the tank blew up and the blast flipped the limo onto its top. Armstrong, Bladewolf, and Sam all became uncomfortably intimate with each other for a few moments. Then they became uncomfortably unconscious.

"Sam!"

Sam awoke to something dry slapping against his face. It was Bladewolf's cyber-tongue. "Sam, wake up."

"Stop that!" Sam pushed the UG away. Who knew where that tongue had been?

"My apologies," said Bladewolf. "You were knocked unconscious in the crash."

"And you?" asked Sam, getting to his feet and checking to make sure that his sword was still there.

"My mechanical brain was jostled in the crash, necessitating a reboot of my core systems to prevent a short circuit. In layman's terms I was knocked unconscious."

Sam patted Bladewolf on the head as he surveyed the site of the crash with narrowed eyes. Nearby, the exploded tank smoldered. The limo was totaled, and there were bald cyborg corpses littering the ground.

"Wait a minute…" Sam's petting hand went to his chin.

"Indeed," said Bladewolf. "It seems that all of Armstrong's cyborg guards were bald and looked virtually identical. This may have been caused by budgetary concerns."

Sam waved this away. "Not that, poop! The senator's been kidnapped!"

"Oh," said Bladewolf.

"Let's go!" Sam pressed his feet against the ground and cybernetic energy welled up around his strength enhancement suit; while Sam was all man, his capabilities were certainly enhanced by the advanced super suit that Desperado had bought him. He set off down the street at a breakneck pace until finally arriving at his parked motorcycle only slightly out of breath. Sam swung on and Bladewolf hopped on behind, wrapping his arms around Sam's midriff.

"Could you not do that, poop?" asked Sam.

"Do what?" asked Bladewolf.

"I mean, don't get me wrong, you're a great guy. But you're no Mistral."

Bladewolf's eyes glowed slightly brighter. "Ah. I think I see the problem. You are afraid I will scratch your paint." Instead of straddling Sam's bike while holding onto him, he lifted his legs and sat daintily on the back cushion. The maneuver scratched half the paint off the bike and punctured the seat to boot. Bladewolf retained his embrace of Sam, who winced.

"I apologize," said Bladewolf.

"It's fine," said Sam. "Just forget it."

And with that they were off! The bike ripped down the road in the direction that Sam guessed the mysterious corn-rowed attacked had taken Armstrong. Sam tapped the radio implant in his ear as he steered the bike.

"Sundowner, do you read?"

"Lard and clear, hoss." Half a world away, Sundowner closed his Google image search of 'War + Nudes.' "What can I do ya for?'

"Armstrong's been keednapped. I need a track on his attackers."

"My pleasure," drawled Sundowner, his mechanized hands racing over the small Dell laptop keyboard in the back of the command helicopter. "Good thing we put that little trackin' bug into Senator Armstrong's jock strap, huh?"

"I guess so," said Sam. He and Bladewolf exchanged confused looks.

"Hot damn!" exclaimed Sundowner. "The bastard's less than half a klick east of your position. Looks like he's tryin' to catch a train."

Sam smirked with a confident look in his eyes. "Looks like our friend is trying to catch a train." He winked at Bladewolf. "I've got an idea, poop."

"Please stop saying that."

Ignoring Bladewolf's protests, Sam swung the bike around a street corner and headed straight for a derelict truck whose loading ramp was extended. Afar, he saw that a set of elevated train tracks ran above him at the other end of the block, just at the edge of the city. With expert driving he drove his bike up the truck's loading ramp at a furious speed.

"This mode of operation is inadvisable, Sam!" exclaimed Bladewolf as he comically clamped his claws over his electronic eyes.

"Hang on, poop!" exclaimed Sam. But Bladewolf didn't hear him; letting go of Sam's waist the moment they hit the ramp had jolted his body straight off the motorcycle and into the street, where he lay dazed and confused for several minutes.

Sam looked over his should even as he drew his crimson HF blade and bisected the truck to let his bike shoot out in a clean arc for the tracks. "Shit!" He called back over his shoulder in concern. "Poop!"

His codec popped to life. "No need to shout, Sam," said Bladewolf. "I have not been knocked robot unconscious. I will meet up with you at the train. Probably."

Sam nodded as the elevated tracks whooshed towards the bike. At the moment that tire met track, Sam thrust his blade into the metal girders below and used this as a fulcrum to pivot his bike into the proper position so that he didn't go flying straight over the track. Sam finished the maneuver by slamming his foot into the track to steady himself. Sam smirked as the dust settled around his huffing motorcycle-he was so satisfied that he almost didn't notice the huge cargo train rushing towards him! But without missing a beat, Sam tightened his enormous butt muscles and shot a full twenty feet into the air, coming down with a text book bun squat workout landing safely atop the engine. Yet he did wince as he heard the train mangle his bike into smithereens below.

"Not bad, hoss," said Sundowner.

"Thanks. I work them out twice, maybe three times a week."

"Ah meant the train."

Sam was confused. "I don't know why you would be. It looks like an old model." Everyone listening to the codec was also confused.

"Didja know," interrupted Sundowner, "that this is the same train Armstrong's captor caught? Or was that a lucky guess?"

"I'd like to keep my aura of mystery, thanks all the same." Sam inserted a rose stem between his teeth and waggled his eyebrows.

"Awright," drawled Sundowner. "Suit yerself. Armstrong's friend is just a few cabs down, so get ready for a helluva fight."

Sam carefully picked his way across the gap between the engine and the conductor's coach or whatever, I don't know how trains work. "So, we got any info on this coffee guy?"

"Hmm. Nothin' good." Sundowner peered down at the laptop as he pulled his cyborg pants up. "Some 'Kevin Washington' liberal peace loving tree hugger. Got a dozen degrees in racism or some shit, tons of multicultural credits on his college transcript. He also worked at a barista at an independent coffee house in Washington for five years."

"That explains the coffee!" said Sam excitedly as he leapt over another gap in the chain of cabs.

"Right. But that's not all—" Sundowner opened up a new window on his browser, then close it quickly and opened the right one "—looks like there's some guy there with him. Satellite imaging ain't good, but I think he's got a sword."

A cocky grin spread over Sam's face. "Oh, yeah? Maybe I'll finally get to test out my skills on a real challenge."

"Well, don't get cocky," said Sundowner.

"Don't worry," said Sam with absolute confidence. "I won't."

Sam strolled confidently over the gap to the last cab only to come across a scene of horror: Armstrong had been bound across the wall of an open cargo platform running on the tracks. There were chains and tape and more chains and an industrial metal pressing robotic claw attached with a pneumatic pressure lock, all to keep the Senator still. He looked dazed but unharmed. Beside him stood Kevin Washington, leaning casually against one of the massive restraints required to keep Armstrong's legendary football skills locked down. Kevin Washington acknowledged Sam's presence with a smile and then took a deep sip from his coffee cup.

"What do you want with the senator?" Sam asked casually, drawing his sword as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"I want him…" Kevin inhaled a deep whiff of his premium pastry roast. "…brought to a fair trial in his home country and imprisoned in comfortable conditions." His face suddenly broke into a horrific grin. As Kevin was talking, Sam noticed a young woman with heavy cybernetic implants sitting on a nearby box. She seemed to be mostly robotic; he could make out pale yellowish muscle through transparent and flexible armor. Though obviously unnatural, her body had a certain inhuman power and grace to it. There were even a few feminine touches: dark eyeliner, pale lipstick, the cybernetic muscled wrapped beneath the armor in the coy imitation of a one piece leotard in a feminine cut, and even almost fetishistic high heels built into her very feet. Quite the distraction.

Sam's attention was drawn again as Kevin, with almost sensual gentleness, poured some hot coffee down the side of Armstrong's neck.

"AAUUUUGUH!" screamed the senator.

"War, war, war," lamented Kevin in a hoarse whisper. "What about all the good things peace has done for us, you damn white privileged cis gender normer?"

Armstrong could only sputter in pain. "Football! Ideals! America!"

Sam winced in sympathy. The woman sitting on the box seemed bored and uninterested with the whole affair.

"What's your game, Kev?" Sam asked, trying to close the distance between him and the madman without anyone noticing.

"My game?" Kevin Washington laughed. "I don't want to play a game. I just want to end all the senseless violence in the world. Is that so much to ask?"

Sam gritted his teeth at Kevin's insane words. "You're mad! You're just a naïve colleges student who doesn't know how the world works?"

"Really?" Kevin drew another cup of coffee from his bandolier and held it carefully to the senator's lips, holding the man's head in place. "All we are saying is…give peace a chance." And with that he forced the hot coffee down Armstrong's throat. The senator tried to spit up, but it was too late; the intense rush of caffeine into his blood stream had already accelerated his heart into palpitations.

"NO!" Sam screamed, drawing his sword. He rushed at Kevin with a strike that would cut the man's hand away from the mug. But in an instant his strike was blocked by the mysterious stranger, who seemed to have their own high frequency blade! Their eyes met—Sam's normal eyes, and the exotic woman's intense dark red ones. Her short white hair billowed from the wind as she smirked, and Sam could see the faint lines of artificial juncture between her teeth and jaw. When she spoke her voice was like sweet white velvet.

"Mind if I insert my sword into this situation?"

Sam tried to push past her, but it was too late. Armstrong's heart began to beat so fast that he entered into cardiac arrest and died within moments. Kevin Washington let out a sadistic laugh. He detached Armstrong from the restraints and nudged the body off the train with his foot.

"NO!" exclaimed Sam in mental agony. The pain and shame of his failure hurt almost as much as having an arm cut off by someone's razor sharp forearm that had been turned into a sword by nanomachines, not that he knew what that felt like though.

Kevin Washington just laughed his psychopathic yet somehow child-like laugh. Above them, a large black helicopter with the foreboding insignia of two crossed olive branches swooped down to hover above the speeding train. As Armstrong's dead body spurted fluids many yards away and counting, Washington reached up and grabbed the orange safety harness that the helicopter was dropping to him. He carefully attached the harness to his body and then looked over at Sam and his attacker.

"Lightning bolt. Take care of him."

The platinum haired woman grinned. "My pleasure, Kev." Her arms flexed and pushed Sam's sword further towards its owner. Sam was momentarily distracted by noticing how flat the chest of this 'Raiden' was. Personally, Sam preferred more well endowed women, but this one was so incredibly beautiful in every other way that he could easily forget that. The truth was he didn't even like white women that much, but that didn't seem to matter to the torch slowly kindling in his soul.

"Damn!" exclaimed Sundowner. "That sunuva bitch killed Armstrong. Make 'em pay, Sma!"

"Little busy right here!" strained Sam as Raiden gave one final push, knocking him back. The mysterious cyborg ninja began flourishing her blade in front of her even as Sam recovered his guard. Sam watched in trepidation as Raiden began to perform a showy but extremely fast kata in front of him that somehow managed to involve her feet holding the sword.

"Sonnova gun!" It was Sundowner. "That bastard's fast! We're on our way, hoss—try to hold out as long as you can!" Sam smirked. He reached up and turned off his radio. Then, keeping his eyes locked with Raiden, he performed his own demonstration by hacking at the air a few times with his sword.

"Not bad," said Raiden.

"Likewise," said Sam. "You're self taught, aren't you?"

In answer, the femme fatale ninja charged him with a burst of speed. Sam deflected the attack and then exchanged a series of lightning quick parries and thrusts with his opponent. Every impact jarred their arms and brought their faces close together. Sparks flew. Raiden disengaged and spun to deliver a sudden backwards thrust. Sam stepped aside and threw out his own cut across the body, but Raiden transferred her sword to her foot and almost knocked Sam's own away with a backwards flipping up-spin kick. Or at least she would have if Sam hadn't stepped just out of range.

Sam watched as Raiden flipped right side up again. "And not half-bad, either," he added.

Raiden returned his appraising look. "You're not half bad yourself."

"Heh," said Sam. "You're sharp."

Raiden rolled her eyes and then went in again. Her flurry of attacks was enough to drive Sam back a few feet, but he held his own all the same. Then in an instant he found himself having to dodge a deadly swooping lash coming straight at his head. He slid his own sword across the underside of the blade and then sidestepped to deliver a splitting head strike to what appeared to be an open guard. He was just regretting killing Raiden when he realized that his blade had stopped a few inches from her face. Sam was shocked: the cyborg had sheathed her sword and slapped his blade tight between her palms!

"Hey!" he said in dismay. "Cut it out!"

"Are you going to make blade puns all day?" asked Raiden just before she twisted, almost tearing the sword out of Sam's grip. He readjusted and pulled back into a defensive posture. Raiden laughed and began to circling him, spinning her ninja blade in circles by her well formed hip. Sam watched her with narrowed eyes—this was getting worrying.

"Look at you," said the ninja. "Little techno samurai. Selling your sword to the highest bidder in a quest for eternal combat. What do you even do with that little sword of yours?"

The question stung, or rather cut. Sam shifted his eyes about and licked his lips. "I…I kill people. For profit."

"Ha!" Raiden laughed in derision and then moved in again, her blade coming from seemingly all directions. Sam was caught. It was all he could do to deflect one or two before his sword was knocked suddenly out of his hand by an incredibly powerful blow. He hissed in pain at his bruised fingers and tried to dodge out of the way, but the tip of Raiden's blade had found its way to his throat. Sam gulped.

"Now I see," chuckled the ninja. "You try to deny your weapon its purpose, don't you? Swords aren't for killing, Sam. They're for keeping the peace in unequal societies where the lower classes can only be subdued by force lest they seize the means of production for themselves." She lowered her blade to watch the effect of her words take effect.

The truth hit Sam hard. "No!" he exclaimed. It went against everything his family lineage had taught him, yet he knew it to be true. In a rage, he spun and snatched up his crimson high frequency katana from the top of the train.

As if from far away he heard the ninja laugh. "You poor bastard. You brought a sword to a tool fight."

Then something caught on Sam's neck and the world spun around and around and around. The last thing he saw before all went black was his own incredibly firm butt clenching and twitching as his headless body collapsed to its knees.

"Sam!" cried a vulpine voice on the codec. "Sam? Saaam!"

**FELT DOLLY FALLING: RECONCILIATION**


	2. Mission 1

Chapter One: Russia or Something, Czechs for Free

Sam hurtled through the air above the black sea, his body locked in a bullet shaped drop pod that had been fired out of a stealth fighter jet. This man was not the same man that had been decapitated back in Africa—no, this was a harder man, a darker man, a stranger man: his muscle enhancing suit was now adorned with dozens of spikes and points of questionable purpose, and the whole thing had been given extra armor plating all over it, especially around his butt for some reason. Samuel Rodriguez was unperturbed by these changes: his steely countenance was one of pure determination and bravery. Not a trace of fear could be seen in his eyes—eyes which practically glowed with rage at the death of Senator Armstrong and the humiliation he had suffered at the hands of Kevin Washington and the mysterious and infuriatingly sexy female ninja code named "Lightning Bolt."

"Bon jour, mon grand," came a sweet voice on Sam's radio. "How are you liking your new body enhancements from your new bodysuit?"

Sam smiled grimly. "Haven't really had a chance to try them out, Mistral. But I'm looking forwards to taking on the bastards that caught us off guard in Africa."

Sundowner patched into their conversation. "Glad to hear it, hoss. Turns out that Kevin Washington and his mysterious friend are part of a Colorado based, pro-peace, deterrence oriented organization called 'Maverick Security.' They've got marijuana outlets all over America, and they control at least 90% of vegan pamphlet distribution in the United States."

Mistral whistled at Sundowner's words. "They sound like tough customers, mon chocon!" Sam nodded in private agreement.

"No doubt," replied Sundowner. "They recruit mostly from pools of undergrads with degrees in ethnicity and women's studies. Their people are outfitted with top of the line free trade coffee and turtlenecks."

"I can handle them," said Sam. Mistral crooned at his bravery, but not everyone was convinced: Bladewolf spoke up on the radio.

"Sam. Do not be overconfident. Remember what happened last time that you charged in with too much bravado."

"I'm not overconfident," said Sam with absolute self-assurance.

"Mr. Rodriguez knows what he's doing, mon loup," chastised Mistral at Bladewolf. She kicked her feet up on her desk back at World Marshal HQ, accidentally knocking over her tall pina colada. A dwarf gecko caught it and handed it back to her, and she thanked it by stabbing it with a knife. "Anyways, he's not going to loose his head again. Our friend Monsoon has made sure of that."

"THAT'S RIGHT!" came an extraordinarily dramatic voice, patching over everyone else. "HOW DOES IT FEEEL, SAM, TO KNOW THAT YOU ARE NO. LONGER. ENTIRELY. HUMAN?"

Sam would have shrugged, but he was packed into a human torpedo. "Kind of heavy I guess." Mistral giggled.

"YES," agreed Monsoon. "HEAVY. JUST LIKE THE STAINS OF TIME. LET ME TELL YOU A RIDDLE, SAM. I AM THE KILLER OF KINGS, THE LEVELER OF MOUNTAINS, THE BREAKER OF HEARTS, THE DESTROYER OF KINGDOMS. AND YET ALL MEN DESIRE ME. WHAT AM I?"

"Time?" Sam hazarded.

"THAT'S RIGHT, TIIIME," hissed Monsoon with immense satisfaction. He continued talking of course, but Sundowner muted his channel from the command helicopter where he was organizing everything.

"'Scuse me, sorry about that," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "Listen, hoss, let me give you a run down of the functionality of your new replacement part. First of all, the skin is a reinforced polymer fiber glass alloy—resistant to bullet damage and so on, except for your lips—we made that out of the same stuff they make fleshlights out of."

"Thanks," said Sam.

"You're welcome. And the hair is a monofilament uni-piece—don't try to undo that pony tail, because it's now permanently part of you."

"Yeah, samurai don't take off their top knots anyways," said Sam. "Except when they come off with our heads. So, I guess then we do take them off, we do take them off, but…"

"We did the same treatment for that winsome five o' clock stubble of yers: it's now a permanent part of your body. You can thank me later for that one."

Mistral crooned. "He looks even more 'andsome now than he did before! Don't you think so, mon loup?"

"Personally," said Bladewolf, "I believe a canine replacement would have been more efficient."

Sam was only disgruntled, despite their attempts to make him feel better. "I don't get it," he complained suddenly. "How come you had to put my brain into a new, cybernetic head? Couldn't you have just reattached the old one?"

"'Fraid not," said Sundowner. "The casing was damaged. And we didn't just replace your head, anyways. We pulled out your spine too and put a new one in, and then replaced your head. Had to put new nerves in you too to attach to the new spine. They're fiber optic, so you might notice an increase in reaction time. Hell, Sam, you should be thankful your brain survived relatively intact."

"Relatively?"

Sundowner talked over him quickly. "They call her the pearl of the black sea. Yer destination ah mean. Used to be a tourist resort for Russian tourists. Now it's a war zone fer some reason. And there's a fossil fuels plant or somethin', I don't know."

Mistral picked up his thread. "You're getting dropped off at a beachhead, mon grand. You'll find your partner for this operation" a note of distaste entered her voice "waiting for you up the road. He's going to provide cover for you while you infiltrate the city and kill everyone."

"What about you, poop?"

"…not for another five hours, I think," said Mistral in confusion. She clutched her pina colada to hear breasts with both hands and took a comforting sip.

Bladewolf spoke up. "He was referring to me, Mistral. Sam, I have already infiltrated the city and killed thousands of people. I have maneuvered the enemy into a long corridor like formation that will allow you to carve through them in a linear way, without having to change direction too many times."

"Sounds good," said Sam.

Sundowner spoke up. "Brace for impact, hoss. Your about to make landfall."

Sam inclined his head with a look of resignation on his face. A large neck guard slash gas mask covering flipped out from his artificial neck and slipped around him, protecting him against decapitations and smells.

Mistral was giggling.

"What?" asked Sam. "What is it?"

"Mon grand." Mistral stifled herself, blowing pina colada out her nose. "Mon grand, mon grand, _keep your head in the game_."

"You too, Mistral," said Sam obliviously.

Then it hit him. _The beach._ Because he had just collided with the beach at a thousand miles per hour. Sam's drop pod ricocheted around the sand for a while before finally spinning into a bank of wet sand and popping open, spilling his dazed ass out into the tide. Sam got to his feet in a briny mess and stumbled towards a set of stairs that would lead him up to street level.

He was greeted by an unusual sight: a gigantic red painted robot swinging an enormous, rocket powered axe about, cutting empty cars and enemy combatants into scraps with its propelled pulverizer. Even the giant robot itself was covered in rockets. Sam watched in disbelief as the mecha made short work of its enemies, then stopped and turned towards him.

"You must be fucking Jetstream Sam," said a brash American voice from within. Sam squinted: in the center of the mech there was the disembodied torso of a man, hooked up by all manner of wires and straps into the device. The man was indeed American—he had a square face, was white, and blonde, and he was an asshole. Those weren't necessarily American traits of course, he just had them in spades.

The cyber-headed Samurai nodded. "Sam I am. And you are?"

"Khamsin, baby." The man reached down to a sack hanging from the frame of his mech and pulled out a large cheeseburger, dripping grease, which he bit into. "Mmm. That's some good American shit there." He eyed Sam. "Want some? Bet they don't have cheeseburgers down in Mexico."

Sam grinned. "Hey, no thanks, I just ate. So where are you from?"

Khamsin turned the other way and grabbed a camel-back style straw, pulling it into his mouth so that he could suck a liter of coca cola into his gut. Then he belched loudly in Sam's direction. "Where am I from, faggot? Only the greatest fucking country on God's green earth."

Sam looked around at the pearl of the black sea. "So, not here."

Khamsin laughed, spraying fragments of capitalistic meat culture everywhere. "HA! This place is a shit hole, isn't it? I like you, Samyouwell."

"Hey, you can call me Sam." The samurai walked up to Khamsin while pressing a finger to his ear. "Mistral, Sundowner, I've made contact with my partner. Orders?"

"Isn't he just the worst?" asked Mistral. She had emptied her pina colada and was now cracking open a fuzzy navel. A cooler full of more girly drinks sweated under her desk.

Sam shrugged. "Looks like it would be difficult for him to get through tight spaces."

"I know." Mistral shifted her weight on her butt, which was the size of two firm watermelons. "Americans are so fat."

"Hey!" exclaimed Sundowner.

"I meant because he's a mech warrior," said Sam. He eyed Khamsin. "Well, nothing for it I suppose. What are our orders?"

In the helicopter, Sundowner nodded as he tapped away one handed at his laptop, his eyes scanning over reams of digital maps. "Good thing you called in, Sam—this is where things get complicated, but don't worry—we'll be with you every step ah the way. Your orders are to head into the city."

"And?" asked Sam patiently.

"Right." Sundowner checked the mission briefing again. "Looks like…that's it, actually. Good luck, hoss. You're gonna need it."

"I'm on this." Sam turned to Khamsin. "You ready to get to work, big guy?"

"If by work you mean spreading freedom to these godless towel heads," said Khamsin.

He and Sam headed into the city through a deserted mansion. Khamsin's bulk smashed through the wall and left a trail of wreckage in their wake. The noise alerted every enemy within a half mile to their position, but since they were all deployed in what was essentially a long line it just meant that the enemy all ran towards them from one direction anyways.

They came out to a big street. Sam and Khamsin were standing on a patio, and below them two dozen people milled about, preparing to receive them in a hostile way. Sam stared in wonder: he had expected cyborgs, but what he got was young men and women in t-shirts and jeans. They all seemed to be in their twenties, and all of them looked disheveled and somewhat overweight. Each was clutching a paper cup of Starbucks coffee in their hand and glaring blearily about. Some 'heavy-hitter' looking types also had folders full of paper under their arms.

"What the fuck is this?" asked Sam.

Khamsin licked his lips, his robot body hefting the large bionic axe. "Grad students, Samyouwell. Didn't you get the briefing? They recruit from all the universities, big and small. No shortage of grad students in ethnic studies looking to go out and make a difference. Poor shits."

"I thought it was a joke—" began Sam.

Sundowner patched into their frequency, interrupting him. "It's grad students. Maverick Security employs them from all over the world, from every institution you can imagine. There's always plenty of young people out there looking to write a thesis."

"Okay," said Sam. "I get it. They're grad students. Why does everyone have to tell me everything twice—"

"Grad students, mon grand?" asked Mistral. "Such poor unfortunate souls. Zey zink zey can make a difforance in ze world, but no, alas, they cannot. The world is a big, scary thing. Just like that enormous dildo I ordered on the internet last night."

Bladewolf piped up. "Maverick Security mainly employs grad students in its operations, backed up by tenured women's studies professors. If you would like to know more about them I would be happy to discuss the matter with you on the codec, Sam."

"Can I fight them now?" asked Sam. At that moment Khamsin returned to his side, smoke pouring off his mecha body, blood dripping from his mega-axe. He began wiping the axe off on the foreign flag that was hanging from the side of the mansion. He looked down when he felt Sam's eyes on him.

"Don't worry, Samyouwell," he said. "I got this for ya." He grinned, displaying his American teeth.

Sam eyed the carnage that Khamsin had left in the streets; there were severed limbs everywhere, drenched in overpriced coffee and strewn with scattered graduate essays. He walked into the street, fished around in the mutilated bodies, and eventually found a large, smooth white square.

"Good thinkin', hoss," said Sundowner as Sam examined that item curiously. "Crush that current gen iPhone and your muscle-suit's nanos will absorb its meta-batteries, allowing you to fight harder and longer in combat without going down."

Mistral giggled.

Sundowner continued. "If you'd like ta know more about getting nano energy from Apple products you can read the mission appendix."

"Great. I always hated Apple products," said Sam. "They're so overpriced." He crushed the phone in his fist, producing a satisfying spark. Immediately he felt his bodysuit thrumming with newly found energy—he felt rejuvenated. Yet Sam shuddered. This was a useful battlefield tactic, he had to admit—but at what cost?

"Did you see the new one, mon loup?" Mistral asked Bladewolf over the codec.

"No, Mistral," said Bladewolf. "I have not retrieve it from _Intimates _yet. And I would appreciate it if you did not make me go down to the store to pick up your deluxe sexual aids for you any longer. People are beginning to give me strange looks. And also you have never reimbursed me for the shipping costs as you said you would."

"What do you have to be embarrassed about, gear?" scoffed Mistral. "How do you think _I_ would feel walking down the street holding The Destroyer 2000? Hell, what are robots good for if they can't pick up embarrassing stuff from ze store, eh?" She frowned, sucking on a Zirnof Ice. "Besides, I was talking about ze new Steve Jobs movie!"

Sam deliberately turned off his codec and turned to Khamsin once more. "So," he said, "can I ride on your back? Just so we can get this over with?"

Khamsin considered this. And by considered, I mean he stuffed an enormous wad of chewing tobacco into the corner of his mouth and began to chew it juicily. "Hm. Yeah, whatever, but no gay stuff, you big-assed Mexican faggot."

"At least I have an ass." Sam winked, then hopped into the air and landed skillfully on Khamsin's back—or rather the top of his mecha.

The mechanized Wind scowled and threw over his shoulder: "Keep it quiet up there, will you? I can hear that thing flexing all the way down here!"

"Joost don't knock me off!" called Sam as he settled in, gripping two convenient rails for support as Khamsin set off gliding across the ground with surprising grace. The rockets were powerful but noisy, so they didn't have much chance for conversation on their way 'into the city.' Khamsin made short work of everyone they encountered, though. The going was so easy that Sam didn't even have to worry about being jostled off. Bored, he turned his codec back on to see if things had evolved.

Sundowner's voice faded in. "—just one god damn minute, did you say _twenty one_?"

"Twenty two," corrected Bladewolf in his usual flat tone. "Do not ask me how it is possible. I do not want to know how she does it. But sometimes, at night, I hear it vibrating."

"Mah god," intoned Sundowner in awe. "So _that's _what that rumbling is. I thought HQ was being attacked by ah Graboid!"

Suddenly, Mistral's voice reoccurred. "'Alloh, mon silly billies, I have returned from ze QFC's alcoholic isle! What 'ave you been talking about?"

Sam turned off his codec. "I can't believe this shit," he said to himself. In curiosity, he looked down at the top of Khamsin's head and called: "Hey, American pig! Have you been listening to the codec this whole time?"

"What?" Khamsin called back, cupping a hand to his ear. His mecha imitated the motion and cupped a three pronged hand to the side of the chassis. "The codec? No! I've been listening to my Tom Petty playlist on repeat for the last forty three hours! I ain't got time for that codec shit!"

Sam was about to ask him how he got his orders from command in that case. But then he realized that he was just jealous: Tom Petty is a really good musician. Before Sam could do anything else, he and Khamsin were stopped dead in their tracks by an alarming sight: a square headed man in a black trench coat wielding a bushy black moustache. Khamsin spread his robo-legs and screeched to a mecha-halt before this mysterious and dangerous foreign stranger. As Sam hopped down to the ground and approached, hand on sword, the faint chanting of Cossacks could be heard in the distance.

"Civilian, identify yourself," said Sam coldly, knowing from the imposing look of this man that he was in fact no civilian.

The man smirked, his extremely Russian moustache flaring up to the side like a dark blade. He began to speak. "Boris vyacheslavovich popovich leningrad sastocovich dimitryavich agov ragovich merovich stalingra stalinocovichschalcovichovavich." He went on, only growing louder and more bombastic with his intonations.

Khamsin's jaw dropped. "What the FUCK is he saying? It's some kinda…gibberish!"

"I think the first three words were Russian," said Sam, stroking his beard and watching the man carefully for any signs of hostility. Sam activated his codec again so that he could call Sundowner.

"'Aye am so offended zat you would do zis to maw, mon loup. 'Ow could you tell Sundowner zat the Destroyer is twenty two inches long. I-I didn't even pay attention to ze measurements when I bought it, I swear! What 'ave I done to deserve zis disloyalty from you?"

"You made me shake your hand," Bladewolf pointed out.

"That's true, Mistral," said Sundowner mildly. "That was pretty fuckin' cold of you."

Mistral wailed in unconvincing horror. "'Ow horrible! You all 'ave turned against me! What is a girl to do!"

"Guys." Sam cleared his throat.

Mistral gasped. "Mon grand! My knight in shinning amooour! Make zes bad, bad man and his shaggy dog leave a poor little princess alone!"'

"So, Sundowner," said Sam loudly. "Any intel on this square in front of me?"

"Hm? Oh yeah, jes' a moment hoss." Sundowner tapped away for a few seconds as the rambling Russian continued, now throwing his arms up in the air and kicking his legs out randomly. Khamsin was too stunned that Russians actually existed in real life and not just on TV to do anything.

Then Sundowner came back. "Aw hell—Sam, that's Boris Vyacheslavovich Popovich Leningrad Saastocovich! He's one of Maverick's head operatives! LOOK OUT, HOSS!"

Sam did a back flip just in time as Boris' trench coat was flung up by his waving arms, revealing a bandolier of piroshky pastries. Boris spun dramatically in a flash and let loose a disgusting lentil and beef piroshky that flew right past Sam's face, just nicking him on his cyber-chin. Sam flipped back upright and cut the flying pastry in half with his now drawn sword for good measure, smirking to show how unsurprised he was.

Khamsin belched in horror. "M-merica!" and he wielded his axe above his head, bringing it down right on top of this new, far more dangerous combatant. But Boris was much too fast for him—the axe hit only pavement, and the baggy pants-ed Russian spun, tipping a dark fur cap ironically to Khamsin in an instant before letting fly with a delicious chocolate piroshky right into the man's mouth. Khamsin swallowed it reflexively before Sam's scream of horror could reach him. The Samurai stopped, frozen, hand out stretched, watching the Russian pastry disappear into his partner's mouth. Khamsin licked his lips and belched, looking stunned. "Hey, now, that's…that ain't bad at all." Slowly, he reached up and touched the dough smeared on his lips. "...good food…that ain't American?" he muttered to himself. "That ain't…that ain't possible, is it?" With haunted eyes he looked at his burger sack; in those eyes was the knowledge that he could never enjoy shitting cheese burgers again. Kkhamsin's lower lip shook. "N-no. No, it's not possible! IT'S NOT POSSIBLE!"

Sam stared in horror, unable to act. "Khamsin, get a hold of yourself, my friend!" he bellowed. But as he watched, the American mercenary began to shake back and forth. The mecha quivered and sparked in sympathy with its master, and a loud hissing sound came from within it. The rockets began to sputter. "NOT-NOT POSSIBLE—AMERICA…..AMERICAAA!"

Sundowner screamed into Sam's ear. "GET TO COVER, HOSS! HE'S GONNA BLOW!"

"Oh, Christ!" Sam dove out of the way just in time as Khamsin exploded to bits. "Nooo!" roared Sam in outrage as pieces of the American rained down around him. Tragically, a cheeseburger rolled to Sam's feet in a coagulated lump. He knelt to pick it up, cradling it in his arms. "Khamsin...you poor bastard." He opened his mouth to take a mournful bite of the burger but then immediately thought better of it and threw it into the gutter where it belonged. Then he rose and turned towards the gloating piroshky-thrower and gave him what-for. "You're a reeel sonaofabitch, you know that, roosky?"

The square-faced man smirked. "Amerikanski polanski berliner underground rasputin antastacia cossak baltic ukraine."

Sam's eyes flashed. "How did you know?" He twirled his sword in a lazy arc, shrugging after a moment. "It doesn't matter anyways. By the way, do you know Raiden? The Russian cocked his head invitingly. "Tell her 'Samhwell Rrodreegess is coming to her,'" said Sam darkly. "Actooally-I'll tell her myself!" Then he rushed forwards through the air with his katana swinging to cut off Boris' head. The mad Russian managed to dodge the attack by hopping up and down and kicking his legs out several times. Each time Sam cut at him, the dance somehow kept him out of reach of the blade.

"MAH GAWD!" ejaculated Sundowner into Sam's ear. "Tha culture! Tha ethnicity! It makes him unstoppable!"

"I'll put a stop to this," growled Sam.

"SAM-WAIT!" Bladewolf cautioned. But it was too late: Sam had already charged in again, swinging recklessly. Boris simply smirked. In the next instant, his heavy-duty snow boot caught Sam in the chin and knocked him flat on his ass. The Russian finished his dance and stood triumphant. He reached into the pocket of his massive puffy black jacket and brought out a potato piroshky, twirling it expertly in his fingers as Sam looked on in numb shock.

"Sacre bleu!" exclaimed Mistral over the codec. "This toy is incredible!" A loud buzzing sound filled the radio.

Sundowner groaned in frustration. "Gorramit Mistral, get your head in the game! Sam's down! Someone, get down there now!"

"I am on my way," said Bladewolf, sounding out of breath even though he was a robot. "But by my calculations I will not arrive before Sam receives a piroshky suppository." Sam was too dazed to move or hear anything. A normal human head would have been simply ripped off by a blow like that, from such a strong ethnic dance kick. As it was, he had been rendered helpless.

The mad Russian trudged closer, laughing deeply. "Dostoyevsky Russia leningrad Shastocovich pupoyvich demitriavich, Sam."

"That's deep," agreed Sam faintly. "You a philosopher, then? So, what's the meaning of life? Why are we here?"

The devious Russian knelt down by him, gripped him by the chin, and pried his mouth open. He brought his piroshky up to eye level, preparing to cram it into his victim's mouth. The Russian's lips peeled back from large yellow teeth and his heavy moustache fluttered in the wind. Someone was screaming on the codec but Sam could not hear.v"Vodka, Brazilikanski," grated the Russian. "Vodka existentialism orthodox catholocism."

"Funny," said Sam, as he dropped his act and grabbed his sword up off the ground. "I was just about to tell you that." He stabbed Boris's heart and killed him instantly. Then he bunched his legs up and kicked Boris off the ground into the air. The dead man spun like a leaf for a moment with a look of shock on his face before Sam rose from a Samurai style crouch with his katana flashing, performing the legendary thousand cuts move, cutting him into a thousand pieces. Then Sam leapt off the ground, a reinforced titanium shield sliding out of a hidden compartment on his artificial head. He head butted the center of Boris's considerable Russian mass and caused the entire collection of parts that were barely holding together by friction to blast off in all directions simultaneously. Sam landed in a crouch. Suddenly, his codec beeped. It was Boris, his last words an electronic ghost.

"...Checkooov's...gunnnhhh."

Sam smirked to himself. "Huh. What would a Russian know about freedom anyways?"

"Sacre bleu!" exclaimed Mistral again. "What a dick!"


	3. Mission 2

Courtney Collins

_Time: 0800 hours_

_Location: Ohio, America_

_Date: Independence Day, 2022. The day of 'Pearl Jam,' the lesser known sister operation of the Pearl Harbor attack, where Japanese terrorist set off suicide bombs in the center of a proxy-concert run by international conspiracies to control oil and A.I. technology through clone-parasite implanted super soldiers enhanced with gene therapies to make them into the perfect child soldiers._

_Location, again: A small suburban house painted red. It is midday. A young woman with a short bob of curled blonde hair dusts her floury hands off on the apron that protects her red and white polka dotted dress, knee length, and calls out the window to the two young boys in the middle of the street. The boys are playing catch._

"Cookies are in the oven, boys!" she beams. "Come back inside in forty five minutes if you want 'em fresh!"

They ignore her, but she knows they heard. Amused, the woman takes off her apron and hangs it up, then swipes her magazine off the kitchen counter. She sits daintily in an easy chair to peruse Housewives' Quarterly. A few minutes pass, and then her rosy ears pick up the sound of a car pulling over on the side of the road. The boys shouts have gone silent. The woman's face goes blank. She folds the magazine into her lap and clasps her hands together in front of her. Her hands are shaking as she listens to the footsteps come up the walk. It can't Robert: he's due back from his tour any day now, but they boys would be shouting for joy if it was him. But the step is military.

The doorbell rings. She jumps out of the chair and rushes to the door, not wanting to prolong the agony of waiting any longer.

"Ma'am." A man in a black suit, sunglasses, the shine of a cybernetic implant visible above his right eye—he's too bulky to be fully human under the suit. Pinned to the lapel is a red symbol—Desperado's red splash. And in his hands is a note.

Her hands go to her mouth. The man sees her expression, and bows his head, extending the letter. No more need be said, but it is.

"I'm sorry, ma'am."

"Is it—" she begins, but cannot finish.

"It's what you think, ma'am."

She takes the letter from him with both hands, holding it out in front of her as if it were a severed head, staring, unable to see through the sudden tears. The boys are standing in the driveway watching, baseball bat forgotten rolling off the sidewalk. The man is staring at his shoes.

"Get out." It is more like a plea than an order. The man looks up. "Get the hell out of here," she says, firmer—firm enough. He understands. He goes. The black van turns the corner and is gone, taking the world she knew with it.

With trembling fingers, there in the doorway, she opens the letter.

_Deah Mrs. Khamsin,_

_ It's ta my great sorro to tell ya that your beloved husband, Robert Khamsin, passed away yesterday durin' ah highly vital but classified operation. If it is any comfort tuh ya, he did pass away in the company o' his pardner and friend, __hoss __ Samuel Rodriguez, whose phone numbah I have attached to this letter in case ya want to ring him up—ah am sure he would be happy to answer any personal questions you might have about your husband's last moments. Ah am confidant that Robert was thinkin' o' ya in those moments. If there is any-thang me or the rest of his colleagues can do to help, please don't hesitate tah get n' contact with us._

At the bottom of the letter were a set of nonsense signatures. A blocky looking plain-text reading 'Sundowner,' whatever that meant, and an extremely loopy scrawl that looked like it began with an M, and had at least one heart-dotted 'I,' but was otherwise illegible. In the corner it looked like someone had begun to sign 'Mon—' but then had suddenly switched into trying to fit as much of the text of Darwin's _Origin of the Species _into the margins of the letter in terribly crabby hand writing, all in caps.

She turned the letter over. There was an inky paw-print on this side, and a piece of paper stapled to the back with several phone numbers on it.

The paper fell out of her hands as her children came up the walk, looking slow and terrified.

"What is it, mommy?" asked Daniel. "Is it about Dad?"

The younger Tim was clinging to his brother. They had been fighting a few minutes ago about some rule in the game, but now their faces were pale, drained, just like hers must have been.

"You're daddy is fine," she said, her voice by some super human effort remaining unbroken.

"Then why are you crying?" asked Daniel.

"Because I'm so happy you're okay. Come here, baby." She encircled them in her arms. "It's going to be okay. Let's go inside. I'll make us all something to eat. I'll make daddy's favorite."

"Cheeseburgers?" asked Daniel hesitantly.

She kissed his sandy hair. "Cheeseburgers, honey. I love you."

Samuel stooped over the wreckage that had been Khamsin's mech. With two fingers he reached down and closed the single eye still set into the fragment of Khamsin's skull that had been broken off in the explosion. There was no lid, so his fingers just squished the eyeball so it was looking down. Sam sighed, then gently picked up this last piece of his partner and carried it carefully to the small grave he'd dug in a flower bed in front of the mansion he and Khamsin had come out of. There he set these last earthly remains, then pushed the dirt back into the hole and set a beacon on it so that it would not be forgotten once the clean up crews arrived; the man would get a proper burial back in America, his home.

"Anyone want to say a few words?" he asked over the radio.

"Sam…" ventured Bladewolf. "I am not human. I am not capable of fully comprehending the extent of your emotions. But it appears that you thought of Khamsin as a valuable ally in the same way that I value you."

"It's not your fault," said Sam. "Don't blame yourself, poop."

Bladewolf paused. "…Yes."

Sundowner cleared his throat, sounding reluctant. "Look, Sam, I know you guys were close—hell, we'll all miss him—"

"I won't," said Mistral.

"—but you've gotta keep movin'. There's a whole city to neutralize out there."

"I know, dammit." Sam sighed. "I just wish there was something I could say."

Monsoon exhaled over the radio. "Perhaps…a song is in order, to commemorate the man."

"Good idea!" Sam brightened. "How about the—"

"HERE I STAND BENEATH THE WARM AND SOOTHING RAAAAIN!

THE DROPLETS FALLING GENTLY DOWN ON THE TERRAIN!

WASH AWAY THE SOROW ALL THE STAINS OF TIME!

BUT THERE'S NO MEMOR IT'S ONLY DR INSIIIDE!

MY DRRREAMS DISAPPEAAAR!"

"Okay, time to go." Sam sped off down the street, turning off his radio with one hand while keeping his katana at his side with the other. He sprang with super human strength—enhanced by his cybernetic body suit and cybernetic head—across a bridge, spinning in the air and cutting down with a deadly swipe at a pair of hippie buskers playing for change from passers by. He cut them both in half. A squad of grad students immediate converged on the area, outraged by his gentrification of this local color. Sam countered their pamphlets and spoken-word poetry protests by cutting their bodies into hundreds of tiny pieces, then punching them into the sky where they were eaten by birds.

"That one was for Khamsin," he said as the wind carried the confetti of the bodies away. With grim resolve, Sam turned towards his next objective: a larger bridge that linked the city to the industrial area.

"Sam." It was Sundowner's voice on the radio. "Satellites just picked up a helicopter circling your position. Heavily armed. Looks like they've got some heavy equipment on board—cyborg, big, white, some big bald sunnuva bitch. Heh, look at this fat loser sittin' there typing on his computer. What's he doing up in the helicopter anyways?"

"I agree," said Bladewolf. "Sam, I do not think you will have to concern yourself with this new potential threat; he appears to be too useless to venture onto the ground. But I suggest you proceed with caution in any scenario."

Mistral agreed with giggles. "Took zee words right oot of mon bocca, mon loupe. Zis fat peese of sheet would rather sit pretty in his heli-coptor zan go down and fight his battles like a real man, like you and Samuel."

Everyone laughed, even Monsoon—or he would have if Sundowner had not cut him off the channel again.

"Well," said Sundowner after they had all calmed down a bit. "Looks like _that _boy ain't no threat to you, hoss. Why don't you head on into the industrial district, eh?"

"Will do." Sam set off across this new bridge at a jaunty pace. It was a large one over a river, quite a drop down. All seemed well until he heard the buzz of wings approaching in the distance. He spun around just in time to see two huge missiles heading straight for him! Sam jumped, avoiding the blast that split the bridge in half. It was all he could do to run fast up the collapsing side of the structure, even as behind him a great black bird of death swooped down and opened fire with machine guns. Sam used his sword to cut the bullets in half—he had to reach around behind his back to do so. Furious and panting, he just managed to clear the bridge before it collapsed into the water. With a roar, Sam leapt to the side to avoid another missile, which shot past him and collided with a large set of stone pillars in the public park behind him. As he flew through the air, Sam spun expertly, aiming a kick at the next missile that came. As it flew past him he hit in the side, causing it to veer around off course—and seek heat straight for its own shooter! There was another blast, a ball of fire, and the chewed debris of the helicopter careened into the ravine to join the wreckage of the bridge it had destroyed.

Sam jammed a finger into his own ear.

"Sundowner, what the hell! I thought you said the helicopter wasn't coo-ming any where near me!"

"Ah don' understand, hoss!" exclaimed the Texan with equal consternation. "I'm still lookin' at it right now! The bastard's just sittin there in the helicopter with his pants down screamin' at his laptop! Wait a minute—"

There was a long silence on the line. Back at the command center, Mistral held a Zirnoff Ice to her lips and waited. In the city behind Sam, Bladewolf stopped digging a hole in the middle of the road and perked up. And Monsoon was drowning in a bowl of soup.

"Err—well, looks like that heli cleared out!" Sundowner's voice was practically sweating. "No need ta worry about it now!"

"So you're saying it wasn't the same helicopter?" queried Sam in confusion.

"Ah, no. Not the same. Just another one. Gone now, though."

"And good riddense!" spat Mistral. "I hope ze coward aboard zat shitty berd never shows hez fat, baby face again—if he doez, I am sure mon gran and mon loupe will show heem what a real man can do with a sword!"

"I have to agree," said Sam sourly. "And we got all worked up about fatty—when he wasn't even the one on my butt. Next time keep an eye out for _two _helicopters, boss."

"Ah. Uh…will do, hoss." Sundowner licked his lips. "Will do."

Sam proceeded on through the abandoned park. He had to fight off a few graduate students, but they were not difficult to deal with; the next real challenge would no doubt be whatever sick-minded individual this enemy PMC (Peace Motivated Collective) would throw at them next. First the black man with the coffee cups, then the Russian dancer—but most of all, Sam was excited to get another crack at the beautiful white ninja woman wither her pale skin and silver hair. Almost too excited—blushing a bit, he stepped out of a roof access door and found himself confronted by a stretch of forest. In the distance was some sort of processing plant.

"Sam." It was Bladewolf on the private channel. Sam switched over to it.

"Yes, poop?"

"I do not defecate, Sam."

"Huh?"

"…It is nothing. I have been running calculations. I believe that Sundowner was looking at his own—"

"Hold on, poop!" Sam held up a hand, and with the other he touched the side of his face. Inbuilt binoculars popped out of a hidden panel in his cybernetic head and slipped over his eyes, giving him a good look at what was going on atop a large oil tank. A woman in a blue shirt with tied blonde hair, glasses, and a dark skirt with heels was talking to a fat, short, bearded man. The man was one of Desperado's clients! He didn't recognize the woman, though. 

"I'll be," said Sundowner in awe. "Hoss, do you know who that is?"

Sam nodded grimly. "Yeah. One of our top payers. _Joseph Stalin_."

Mistral spat out her Mike's Hard Lemonade. "Egadz! Do you zink he haz betrayed oos?"

"Hold on." Sam watched in trepidation as the woman, who looked straight out of an office, suddenly produced a _coffee cup_. He let out a hiss. "NO!" But Stalin was too far away to hear. As Sam watched helplessly, the woman accidentally let the cup slip from her fingers. It broke, splashing hot coffee all over her victim's feet. The man screamed. Sam watched as smoke rose around Stalin's melting legs. In mere moments the poor bastard had been reduced to a puddle of goo, the incredibly hot fair-trade coffee having claimed another victim. Suddenly, the woman turned towards him, looking right into the binoculars! And she held up a piece of paper for him to see—it was a restraining order for stalking and voyeurism!

Sam gasped and ducked behind a rooftop radiator.

"Mon gran, mon gran!" It was Mistral. "Wot has hoppon?"

"I just dodged a bullet." Sweat beaded on his forehead, but it came away with a quick swipe of the hand. "I've got to get down there and put a stop to that mad woman."

Bladewolf cut in. "Await my arrival, Samuel: I am only a few kilometers away. We can face this threat together. As…" the UG hesitated, surprisingly. "As allies, Samuel Rodriguez."

"No time for that," said Sam distractedly as he ran down through the woods, deforesting the entire area with his katana to make a path. "I have to catch that woman before she escapes alive!"

With a mighty leap he made it all the way to the top of the oil tank. The woman hadn't moved. She was still standing there over the puddle, wiping her glasses carefully with a wet wipe. When she saw him, a smile crueler than the ocean was evident.

"Well, well. What is everyone's favorite Brazilian Samurai doing here?"

"I'm here to stop you." Sam pointed his sword at her. "You and your 'peace.'"

"Stop us?" The blonde threw her head back and laughed, arching her back and pushing forwards her modest and realistic breasts. "Why would you want to stop peace, him? What harm has peace ever done anyone?"

Sam snorted in disgust. "Tell that to Joseph Stalin."

"That poor fool?" The woman chuckled throatily and ground her short and reasonable high-heel down on one of Stalin's remaining fingers, which had not been dissolved yet. "Thought he could cut a deal—go white hat, without paying for his atrocities. Well…he got his _peace prize_."

"Listen to yourself." Sam circled her, hefting his sword guardedly. "You've gone mad with progressivism."

"That's what you _would _say," retorted the woman, following him with sultry strides, her small and average buttocks barely discernible through her skirt as she moved. "You and your little sword, you little man, selling your sword to the highest bidder. Tell me, _Sam_, what do you even believe in. What are your ideals?

"Ideas?" Sam hesitated. "I…exploit the weak. We make a profit off of people's fear, I guess, destabilizing war torn countries."

"Ha." She smirked knowingly. "Petty lies to hide a man enforcing a societally racist society. Tell me, Sam, do you even _think _that Black Lives Matter?"

"I don't understand the question," shot back the Samurai. "Are you implying that only black people's lives matter?"

"HA! Just what I thought you'd say, you racist, misogynistic, cis gender homophobic hetero normative FART RAPIST!"

The trap had been sprung! Sam reeled back, waving his sword wildly to deflect the tidal wave of outrage rushing invisibly towards him through the internet. In his helicopter, Sundowner was thrown back against the bulkhead by an explosion of comments on Desperado's twitter account calling the company insensitive and gynopathobic, and communications were instantly shut down at Desperado HQ by millions of anonymous phone calls demanding that Samuel Rodriguez be fired for being a racist sexist homophobe.

"Ah, masculinity…" drawled the blonde as she swung at Sam with a stack of graduate essays on gender identity. "_So fragile_."

"No!" Sam cut the papers in half with is katana, but he was being forced to the edge of the tank. The woman kept after him. The constant onslaught off 3rd wave feminist hashtags was almost too much to bear. With a smirk, the blonde battler produced her most deadly weapon yet—an essay by Judith Butler! She flung out her hand with a laugh, sending the transgressive ideas aboard the paper scything towards Sam's eyes to be read. At the last moment, Sam jumped into the air: the essay slashed through a nearby phallic pipe. Bright white mist shot out of the pipe and sprayed onto the woman's face! She screamed. It was ice cold, freezing her skin right off. Sam took the opening: with a mighty slash he separated head from neck. What might as well have been a snowwoman's skull tumbled to the ground and exploded in a puff of white, and the rest of the half-frozen body followed suit.

Sam alighted on the ground. He was utterly out of breath and shaking. Suddenly, his codec crackled to life. A raspy voice tickled his ear drums.

"Cis…_scum…_"

"Who was that, Sundowner?" he asked.

Sundowner had by then recovered from the twitter spam. He was looking at Wikipedia. "Courtney Collins. Diversity consultant for dozens of start-up companies. We had ah file on her before, but we had no ideah she was in this deep with the PMCs. She must ah been here ta assassinate Stalin."

"We keep losing people," groused Sam, staring at the puddle that had been the man.

"Troo," crooned Mistral. "But so do zey, mon gran. Why don't you come on back to ze HQ and unwind a boot? I sink I have at least _one _gross manly dreenk in my cooler. Zat whas not a euphemism of some kind, by ze way. I am being literal. But please do knock on ze door first if you stop by my room. Also, peek up some batteries on ze way over here."

Sundowner shook his head. "'Fraid he can't do any of that, Mistral. Look at this: her last job was with an orphanage in Mexico. You've got another trip ahead of you, hoss."

"An orphanage?" Sam stroked his chin thoughtfully. "What could our friends be doing over there?"

"Nothing good," said Sundowner. "Bladewolf, I want you to meet Sam back at the park for extraction. Luckily, we won't need to work out a new identity for Sam; he'll fit right in."

"Why do you say that?" asked Sam.

There was an awkward pause over the codec.

"Well…" began Sundowner. "You're, uh, of Spanish descent, ain't ya, hoss?"

"Brazilian, my friend. Not the same thing." Sam wiped the blood off his katana and sheathed it. He looked for a ladder to climb down the tank.

"Oh. Uh. They ain't?"

"Ooo" crooned Mistral. "You are baaad, mon chocon. Baaad."

"She sounds intoxicated," said Bladewolf from behind Sam. He had approached in silence as the Samurai spoke to Sundowner. Sam gave him a pat on the head, then turned his attention back to the codex.

"No, boss. Spain and Brazil aren't the same. Neither are Mexico and Brazil."

"You ain't Mexican? Then where's Mistral from?"

"Argentina," said Sam. "Right?"

"Mon grannn…where is The Destroyer, mon grannn? 'Ave you stolen it from me? Baaad. You are all terrible people."

Sundowner sounded utterly baffled. "Huh. Now don't that beat all."

"I fear that Mistral may need medical intervention," said Bladewolf to Sam.

"Her liver is fine," said Sam.

"I was referring to the psychological variety."

"She's probably joost bored, being stuck back at HQ. Wasn't she supposed to come along on this mission?"

"She was. But she was unable to pass the physical beforehand."

"Physical."

"Yes," said Bladewolf hesitantly. "She…had difficulty walking. And sitting down. This has been a problem ever since she began ordering adult novelty items over the internet. I know this because she makes me pick them up at the store for her."

"I know, poop. Stop whining about it. Get it—_whining?_ Like a dog."

"I am not whining, Sam. I am an intelligent being. I am not a UPS truck."

"Hey, it gives you something to do, right? Nothing like a dog with a bone."

"I find it humiliating. Perhaps someone less intelligent would be more suitable to the task. Such as Monsoon."

"Well, if bothers you so much, I'll talk to her aboot it."

Bladewolf paused as they neared the edge of the tank. "Really, Samuel?"

"Yes." Sam grabbed the ladder and hoisted himself over the side, calling back: "As soon as we get back from our trip to Mexico, amigoooo—"


End file.
